


A Father's Love (previously "Barson fic #5")

by adrianna_m_scovill



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Blood and Injury, Drama, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hostage Situations, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 00:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13201776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrianna_m_scovill/pseuds/adrianna_m_scovill
Summary: When Barba comes face to face with an armed man seeking revenge, the ADA is determined to talk his way to a resolution. When Noah is pulled into the dangerous situation, however, all bets are off.





	A Father's Love (previously "Barson fic #5")

As soon as Barba made it through his door, he slowed, his steps faltering as he felt a tingle of something—some awareness, some flare of instinct that had him instantly on edge. Before he could turn, or reach for his phone, or even set down his briefcase, the other man stepped into sight.

Barba recognized him immediately. “How did you—” He stopped himself, though, because that was a pointless question. “Mr. Johnson, you can’t be here,” he said, instead, adjusting his grip on the handle of his briefcase. He glanced around, weighing his options.

Johnson was just standing there, a couple of yards away, a gun held by his side. He didn’t look like he’d slept well lately, and Barba knew why. He could sympathize, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was the dazed look in Johnson’s eyes, the look that said he wasn’t quite sure how they’d come to this point.

“They’re gonna put him away forever,” Johnson said, in a low voice that was full of hurt and confusion. There was anger, there, too, but it was seething just under the surface; Barba knew that when it arose, so would the gun.

“Mr. Johnson, I cannot discuss—”

“Maybe put a needle in his arm,” Johnson continued. “Parents ain’t s’posed to have to bury their kids.”

“Tell that to Jessica Baker’s parents,” Barba said, before he could stop himself.

Johnson’s eyes sharpened, and the gun angled up a few inches. “He didn’t do that,” he said. “He didn’t do what those cops said—what you told the jury he did! _You_ convinced them my son’s a monster and they’re gonna kill him for it! For your lies!”

“Mr. Johnson,” Barba said, bending to set his briefcase on the floor; he held his other hand up, palm-out. “I under _stand_ that this is difficult for you. But first thing in the morning, I _will_ make my closing arguments, and after that your son’s fate is in the hands of the jury.”

“They don’t know him,” Johnson said. “ _You_ don’t know him.” He raised the gun and pointed it at Barba’s chest.

Barba straightened, his heart thudding in his chest. His phone was in the inside breast pocket of his jacket, and he weighed the pros and cons of reaching for it. The sight of that gun’s black hole staring at him made his skin tingle, but under his fear, he could feel his own anger building.

“Your son is going away, Mr. Johnson. Do you _really_ want to join him?”

Johnson’s expression darkened. “You’re not taking him from me. You’re going to tell that jury—tell the judge—that you lied.”

“I’m sorry, _what_?” Barba asked, his eyebrows raised as a muscle in his jaw ticked. “That’s your plan, here?”

“You can fix—”

“Your son _raped and murdered_ Jessica Baker. You want to talk about losing _your_ child, Mr. Johnson? Your son is _alive_ , but I won’t lose sleep when they put that needle in his arm. How dare you come into _my home_ —”

Johnson stepped forward, leveling the gun at Barba’s forehead, and the ADA stopped, his stomach clenching. He swallowed, his thoughts flitting—unbidden—to Benson. They’d only just begun dating; there was so much he wanted to tell her, so much he’d waited to say—so much he’d thought there would be time to discuss.

“Those cops framed him.”

“No,” Barba said, with a little shake of his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson.”

The gun was trembling in the other man’s unsteady hand, but Johnson’s finger was near the trigger and Barba knew that he had to get his own fear—and temper—under control. His only chance of defusing this situation would be to talk his way out. He’d made a career of talking; if he couldn’t convince one man not to throw his life away—

There was a knock on the partially-open door, and Barba started to turn, surprised. From the corner of his eye, he saw Johnson lower the gun, quickly, to his side.

Noah was standing in the doorway, and at the sight of him, Barba’s stomach dropped. Cold dread spread through his body; the fear he’d felt for his own safety, his anger, his love for Benson—at the sight of Noah’s face, all of those became secondary. All that mattered was getting the kid out of harm’s way.

Noah’s expression was hesitant as his eyes flicked toward Johnson and back to Barba. “Mom said we could—” he started.

“Whatever you’re selling, kid, I don’t have time right now,” Barba cut in. “Mr. Johnson and I are—”

“Who are you?” Johnson demanded, trying to hide the gun by his leg.

“He’s the neighbor kid, I buy school crap from,” Barba said, giving Noah a hard look. “We’re busy, kid, go find your mom.” _Please, please get out of here_ , Barba thought.

Noah took a step backward, his hand still on the doorknob, but then Lucy was behind him in the opening, saying, “Noah! Sorry about that, Mr. Barba, he saw the door was open and ran ahead—” Her gaze slid toward Johnson, and down, and Barba knew that she’d seen the gun. She had her hand on Noah’s shoulder, and Barba saw her fist curl into the boy’s coat as she prepared to pull him backward.

“What are you selling?” Johnson asked, and Barba realized that Noah was holding a paper bag. “Noah, is it?”

The boy glanced up at Barba. “Cookies,” he answered, quietly.

“Well, bring ‘em here,” Johnson said, with a sickly attempt at a smile.

“No,” Barba said, sharper than he’d intended. He met Lucy’s eyes for just a moment, and she tugged on Noah’s collar.

“Stop,” Johnson said, and Barba knew that the other man had seen the nanny’s gaze flick toward the gun. Even as Johnson was bringing the weapon up, Barba turned and sidestepped so that he was in front of the other man with his back to the door.

“They have _nothing_ to do with this,” Barba said. Without looking back, holding Johnson’s gaze, he added, “Get the kid out of here.”

“No,” Johnson said, stepping forward, and Barba prayed that Lucy would grab Noah and run. Before he could say anything else, Johnson had the gun an inch from Barba’s head. “Come in and shut the door or I’ll shoot him.”

“No!” Barba heard Noah cry out.

“Noah!” Lucy said, but it was too late—Noah was already at Barba’s side, holding out the paper bag.

“Here,” the boy told Johnson, the paper crackling in his hands. “Take the cookies, don’t hurt him!”

“ _Damn_ it, kid,” Barba muttered. He grabbed Noah’s shoulder and yanked him backward. The bag dropped to the floor as Barba pulled Noah behind him.

“Shut the door,” Johnson told Lucy as he took a step backward and ran a shaky hand over his face. Barba could feel the other man’s growing desperation; it was coming off him in waves.

With his jaw clenched, Barba repeated, “They have _nothing_ _to do with this_. Mr. Johnson, think about what you’re _doing_.”

“That’s it, I just—I just need time to think,” the man said, running a hand through his hair in agitation while the gun, still shaking, was pointed in the general direction of Barba’s head. “They’re not supposed to be here.”

“Right. So let them go,” Barba said. “You don’t want to do this, this isn’t what you intended.”

“Shut up!” Johnson suddenly yelled, and Barba felt Noah flinch behind him. “Just shut up and let me figure out what to do! They can’t leave, they’ll call the—Okay, I’ll just…You!” he said, looking at Lucy. “Sit down, sit in front of the door!” To Barba, again, “I’ll just keep them here and you can go tell them—tell them that my son is innocent.”

“Mr. Johnson,” Barba said, keeping his tone soft, placating, in spite of his unease. “That doesn’t make any sense. I couldn’t do that if I wanted to. Let’s talk this through. You’re going to have to work with me, Mr. Johnson, if you want to find a way out of this. Give me something I can work with. Let’s make a deal.”

“You’ll just lie again,” Mr. Johnson said.

“He doesn’t lie,” Noah said from behind Barba’s legs.

“Hush,” Barba said. He still had his hand on Noah’s shoulder, keeping the kid behind him, and he gave the boy’s shoulder a squeeze.

“All adults lie, kid,” Johnson said, beginning to pace. He was distracted, agitated, and Barba considered trying to sneak his phone from his pocket. He quickly dismissed the idea. He couldn’t take any chances with Noah and Lucy in the room. “Sooner you learn that the better.”

“My mom doesn’t lie and Rafi doesn’t lie,” Noah said.

Barba was touched by this proclamation, moved by the boy’s trust, but he was also terrified for the kid. Arguing with Johnson while he was holding his sanity by a thread would only make things worse.

“No?” Johnson asked, glancing in the boy’s direction as he paced. He, luckily, didn’t seem suspicious of Noah’s use of Barba’s name. “Trust me, she lies. Did you tell him there’s a god?” he asked Lucy, gesturing in the air with the pistol. “Did you tell him—”

“She’s not my mom,” Noah said, and Barba had to suppress a groan. “My mom’s—” He stopped, though, when Barba again squeezed his shoulder.

Johnson stopped pacing. “She’s what?” he asked. “Whatever she is, she’s lied to you, I guarantee it. All parents lie to their kids sometimes. We try to protect them…”

“You love your son,” Barba said. “I know. I get it. You didn’t—”

“You get it?” Johnson cut in, his gaze sharpening on Barba’s face. “Do you have kids, Mr. Barba?”

“No.”

“Then you can’t know. How you do everything for them, anything for them, and…and…”

“You came here to convince me,” Barba said. “So, convince me. Tell me about him. Give me something I can take to the jury. I can’t keep him out of prison, but maybe we can save his life.”

“As soon as you walk out of here, you’ll have me arrested and still won’t do anything to help—”

“You knew that risk when you came here,” Barba said. “You want to shoot me? What would that accomplish? This is your chance, your only chance. If your son is worth saving, convince me. Tell me why he deserves mercy.”

“He didn’t…” Johnson trailed off, swallowing. He had a faraway look in his eyes that frightened Barba—but also gave him a glimmer of hope. Johnson didn’t really believe in his son’s innocence, not deep down, but he didn’t want to admit his guilt. If Barba could convince him that there was still hope, that there was still something the father could do for his son, he thought that Johnson would take the offer of a way out.

“Go sit with Lucy,” Barba said, tapping Noah’s shoulder with a finger. He didn’t look back, but he could hear the boy walking to the nanny. Johnson watched but said nothing. His gun was angled toward the floor, almost-forgotten. “Alright, Mr. Johnson,” Barba said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Tell me about him. Tell me about Kevin.”

For a moment, Johnson’s face twisted and nearly crumpled. He chewed on his lip, struggling to keep his composure. “He was a good kid,” he muttered, and Barba thought the man was trying to convince himself more than anyone else. “When he was a baby, he never cried. He never cried. He was smart, so smart. So much smarter than me and his mother. He was good at everything—sports, art, school, I never understood _half_ his homework assignments, he was taking _calculous_ for Christ’s sake and me, I never even made it past eleventh grade. But when he went to college, he…something changed. I think…I think something _happened_ to him, something that made him…pull away from us. Something he was ashamed of, or…I don’t know. He just…stopped coming home, and he was calling less and less and…and then when my wife passed away…He just…disappeared…” he trailed off, shaking his head.

“It must’ve been difficult, not having him around, after a loss like that,” Barba said quietly.

“I didn’t blame _him_!” Johnson exclaimed, glaring at Barba.

“Of course not.”

“Something—something _happened_ to him, to _change_ him.”

_To make him into a rapist, a murderer?_ Barba thought. He couldn’t say that—Johnson was still clinging to the idea of his son as a victim. Forcing him too quickly to face reality, to abandon hope, would push him to his breaking point. “Tell me about the good times, Mr. Johnson,” he said. “Tell me about your son, the way you knew him. Give me something to take to the jury, something to make them _care_.”

Johnson considered, pacing, the gun still held out at an angle. Finally, he started talking, and the words poured from him as though a dam had been broken.

 

*       *       *

 

“Everything okay, Liv?” Rollins asked.

Benson lowered her phone and looked up, frowning. She gave her head a little shake. “I’m sure it’s fine,” she said, although her worry was etched into her forehead. “Just—I can’t get Lucy, or Barba.”

“He might be in court?” Carisi suggested.

“And Lucy and Noah are probably just playing—” Rollins started.

“No, see, that’s just it,” Benson interrupted. “She called me an hour ago. Noah wanted to bake cookies for Barba—she said he wanted to take them over, I told her to go ahead and I’d meet them there when I got done here. But now her phone goes straight to voicemail, and his—”

“Like you said, I’m sure it’s—they’re probably just busy eating the cookies,” Carisi said.

“Barba and Noah—they must be getting along pretty good, huh?” Rollins said. “It’s sweet that he wants to—”

“You know what, excuse me, I’m sorry,” Benson said, distracted, turning away as she tried Lucy’s number again. As soon as the call went to voicemail, she looked back and said, “I’m just gonna head over to Barba’s. Just call me if we get—”

“Want us to come, Boss?” Carisi asked.

“I—No, thanks, Carisi, I’ll just—”

“Lieutenant?”

Benson looked up. “Yes?”

“We just got a call from dispatch. They got a 911 call, said it’s an open line, they can hear voices. The phone’s registered to a Lucy Huston—when they ran it, your name came up flagged?”

“The line’s open now?” Benson asked the officer, already halfway across the room. “Rollins, Carisi,” she said, gesturing for them to follow. Her heart was slamming in her chest, and she tried not to panic. To the officer: “Have them trace the—”

“They’re doing that now.”

“Tell them to work faster. Fin?”

“I’m on it, Liv. I’ll text you the address as soon as we get it.”

“I’m heading to Barba’s first,” she said, dialing his number again. It rang several times before going to voicemail, and she made a sound of frustration. “That’s where Lucy and Noah were heading, and I can’t get through to him, either.”

 

*       *       *

 

Johnson bent and picked up the paper sack, and Barba felt a cold burst of fear. He had no idea what was actually in the bag. Probably cookies, since that’s what Noah had said—but what kind of cookies? Not something a neighbor kid would be peddling, Barba was sure. If Johnson had reason to suspect that Noah was more than just an acquaintance—

Johnson wasn’t really thinking about Noah, though; he was mired in thoughts of his own son, Kevin, and Barba had to hope it stayed that way. If he could make Johnson believe that everything he’d said about his son could actually _save_ him, this could all be over soon.

Johnson held the paper bag and gun in one hand while he reached into the sack. Barba’s muscles tensed; if he saw an opportunity, he was going to be ready. “You sell cookies in Ziploc—” Johnson said, but he stopped, frowning. He dropped the plastic bag back into the sack and pulled out a piece of paper.

_No, no,_ Barba thought. Johnson dropped the paper bag onto the table, and then the gun was pointed at Barba again.

“What’s this?” Johnson asked, looking from the paper, to Noah and Lucy, to Barba.

“I don’t know,” Barba answered, shifting his weight as subtly as he could. If the gun moved even the slightest bit toward Noah—

Johnson flipped the paper up so that Barba could see it, and a mixture of emotions flooded him at the sight of Noah’s drawing. _Mommy, Me, Yuo,_ the boy had carefully written above each of the three crayoned people. Barba couldn’t sort through his emotions—a love for the boy, so powerful that it hurt; a desire to protect Noah, at any cost, a desire so strong that it stole his breath; fear that he would fail Noah, that he would fail Olivia; anger, at Johnson for putting Noah through this, at Johnson’s son, for destroying so many lives, at himself for stepping into this trap—there was no time to delve into any of them. All he could do was shove them down, squash them as flat as possible, and focus on the situation at hand.

“I—forgot, that’s for someone—” Noah started, a noble attempt at a lie, but Johnson’s preoccupation was sliding away. He had just started to click a few puzzle pieces into place, belatedly.

“You’re not just his neighbor, are you?” Johnson asked the boy, and Barba could see the other man going over all the signs— _don’t hurt him…he doesn’t lie…Rafi_ —that he’d ignored. “Who are you?”

Lucy hugged Noah tighter to her side, and her phone slipped to the floor with a clatter. Barba’s heart stopped. All the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He saw Johnson’s eyes widen as he realized—the gun started to swing toward Noah and Lucy, and Barba started forward.

Johnson shifted, slamming the butt of the gun into Barba’s face, sending him to the floor with a spray of blood from his nose and mouth. Noah cried out— _Rafi!_ The sound of his name echoed in Barba’s head—and struggled against Lucy’s arms.

Barba blinked the tears from his eyes, spitting blood onto the floor, and pushed himself into a position resembling that of a runner at the starting line.

“Kick the phone over here, _now_ ,” Johnson said. “You stupid— _What_ did you _do_?” he asked. He was closer than ever to his breaking point; any advantage that Barba had gained had now been lost, but he couldn’t blame Lucy. She’d done what she could in an effort to protect Noah.

Johnson snatched the phone off the floor, keeping the gun trained on Barba. He looked at the screen and made a gurgling sound in his throat. He ended the open call, hesitated for a few seconds, and threw the phone against the wall. Noah and Lucy flinched as it broke and clattered to the floor in pieces.

“Is he your son?” Johnson asked, his eyes wild and desperate as he glared at Barba. “Is he? _Are you his son_?” he shouted at Noah.

“No!” Barba said through bloody lips. “I’m dating his mother. I’m dating—I’m not his father. Keep the gun on me. Keep the gun on me, Mr. Johnson.”

“There’s no way out of this,” Johnson said, putting his hand to his forehead. “You lied. There’s no…”

_There never was, not for you_ , Barba thought. _You knew that from the start._ “There’s always a way out,” he said. “Nobody else has to be hurt.”

“Where’s your phone? Let me see your phone.”

Barba pulled it from his inner pocket, keeping his other hand on the floor. Johnson snatched the phone away and turned it on, looking at the screen. Barba’s stomach clenched; the mixture of fear, anger, and the taste of blood was making him queasy, and his head and nose were throbbing.

“Lieutenant Benson,” Johnson mused, barely audible. “She’s the one—her detectives are the ones who framed my son.” He looked up at Barba, his gaze sharp, alert, suspicious. “Why’s she been calling you?” he asked, holding up the phone to show the numerous missed calls _._

“I don’t know,” Barba said. “Maybe they traced Lucy’s phone, maybe they know she called from here—maybe the lieutenant is trying to find out if everything is okay. Let me call her back, we can put an end to this. We can all walk out of this.”

“You gonna marry his mother?” Johnson asked, gesturing toward Noah with the phone. “You gonna try to be his stepdad? How do you think _that’s_ gonna go? You think you’ll do everything _right_? You think you can do _better?_ Do you think parents—”

“I don’t know, Mr. Johnson,” Barba said, swiping his bloody nose with his sleeve. “I don’t know how much we learn from our parents or—or how much of their DNA is programmed into us. I’ve spent my whole life trying to get away from what my father was. And you—you _loved_ your son, his whole life, you love him now in spite of what he’s done. Maybe…maybe sometimes, love just isn’t enough. Maybe there’s just nothing we can do, no matter how much we love someone. But that doesn’t mean we stop trying, does it? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Because even if our love isn’t enough, it’s the biggest thing we can offer. Your son still needs you. Let me call the police before it’s too late—before they make assumptions.”

Johnson considered for several moments. Barba knew the man was going to take the bait—he could see that desire, that yearning for some last shred of hope to which to cling, shining in the other man’s eyes. Finally, Johnson handed Barba the phone. Barba sank back into a half-crouch, snuffling blood. He tapped Benson’s name and, at Johnson’s command, put the call on speaker.

Barba didn’t wait, because he knew that she would answer quickly—so when the first ring was cut short, he started, keeping his voice low and calm, “Lieutenant Benson, this is ADA Barba,” he said. He didn’t dare look at Noah but prayed that the boy would remain silent. “I know you’ve been trying to call. You’re on speaker, Lieutenant, and we have a bit of a situation here. I’m sure you’re calling because of the 911 call?”

Benson’s tone was businesslike when she responded: “That’s correct, Mr. Barba. Can you tell me what’s going on? Is anyone hurt?”

“No, Lieutenant, we’re all fine here,” he said. “My young friend Noah is here, and his babysitter, as well as Mr.—actually, I can’t give you his name,” Barba amended mid-sentence when Johnson shook his head. “I think we’re coming to an understanding, though.”

“He can hear me?” Benson asked.

“He can,” Barba answered, his eyes on Johnson as the other man again began to pace.

“Don’t bring the cops here!” Johnson said. “I don’t wanna see—”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that, sir,” Benson answered, calmly. “We have detectives outside the building—you understand we had to respond to a 911 call in the apartment of an ADA.” Barba thought, _God bless you, Liv_ , as he was filled with an overwhelming surge of love for her. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on and we can get this sorted out.”

“This is _your fault_ ,” Johnson started, but he stopped himself, seeming to remember that Benson wasn’t supposed to know who he was. Barba knew that, if she didn’t already know, she would put the pieces together quickly enough. Johnson might underestimate her, but Barba never would. “Just get _away_ , you’ve done enough!” Johnson suddenly yelled, his face twisting. “We—We’ll figure this out without you! _No cops_!” He snatched up the phone and ended the call, his pacing more agitated than ever. He looked at Barba. “You need to tell the jury about my son,” he said, his eyes wide and wild. “You promised. You said you’d tell them.”

“Yes, Mr. Johnson. I need you to stay calm. All you have to do is put down the gun and let them come in here. I can get you out of this, you won’t serve time, Mr. Johnson, not if you let us end this without anyone getting hurt. I promise you. I’ll help you.”

“And you’ll tell them about Kevin. You’ll tell them not to kill him.”

“Yes, Mr. Johnson,” Barba said. “I’ll do my best.” His legs had begun to burn, but he didn’t dare change positions. Johnson was close to surrendering, Barba could see it. There was almost an end in sight.

“What do I say?” Johnson asked, and Barba actually felt sorry for him.

“Tell her you’re surrendering. Put the gun down, put your hands up, and let them come in here. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“I did the best I could,” Johnson said, again trying to convince himself.

“Yes,” Barba agreed. Johnson lifted the phone, and then, suddenly, Barba saw what was about to happen as though the scene had already played before him, and he felt a rush of something close to panic, and he knew that it was too late, that everything had changed. And, still, he had to try: “Mr. Johnson, let me—” he started, holding out a hand for the phone.

But it _was_ too late; Johnson had already hit Benson’s name to call her back, and now, as the phone dialed, the picture filled the screen—the picture of Barba, Benson, and Noah, each smiling, faces close together, the picture that Barba had programmed to Benson’s number. The picture that had secretly given him joy at countless times during the day, now filled him with cold dread.

_Idiot_ , he thought, cursing himself a thousand times over for failing to predict this. _You stupid_ —He tried to push himself forward, up, as Johnson moved toward him, but his legs were shaky, and before he could get himself up, Johnson raised a foot and kicked him. Barba managed to twist just enough to keep the man’s boot from smashing into his already-bloody face, but the blow caught him in the chest and sent him sprawling, unable to breathe, feeling as though his chest were about to explode.

“You _son of a bitch_ ,” Johnson said, bringing his foot down again, stomping Barba’s thigh. Barba drew his leg up, rolling, and saw that Noah had managed to break away from Lucy—she was lunging after him, and he was running toward Barba and Johnson, running low to the ground, his young features twisted in a mixture of fear and anger. “You _lying sonofabitch_!” Johnson shouted, and his next kick caught Barba in the stomach, doubling him up. Barba, his mouth working as he tried to draw a breath, swiped for Johnson’s leg, fighting the white glare of panic that was trying to fill his mind. “He’s the _lieutenant’s son you’re dating the lieutenant you—_ ”

“Leave Rafi alone!” Noah yelled, throwing himself at Johnson’s legs. Johnson turned, throwing out an arm—more out of surprise than anything—and caught Noah in the chest, tossing him backward. Barba threw himself forward, snagging Noah out of the air and pulling him against his side, throwing his other hand up in defense.

Johnson stopped, and most of the anger had evaporated from his face. What was left was the stunned look of a man slapped out of hysteria. Lucy was halfway across the floor, headed toward Noah and Barba. Johnson pointed the gun in her direction, motioning with it, silently telling her to get back, but he seemed unable to speak. He stared at Noah, at the tears shimmering in the boy’s wide eyes.

Barba was still having difficulty breathing, but he’d managed a few breaths. He held Noah to his side, feeling the boy’s body shake. In that moment, Barba wanted to kill Johnson, wanted to bury his fist in the other man’s nose and stomp him into oblivion—but he also, still, felt the unwelcome stirrings of pity.

Johnson tried to shake off the despondency that had begun to settle over him at the sight of Noah’s stricken look. “He’s the cop’s kid,” he said, his voice shaky. “She can get my son out. If she wants to see her son again, she’ll go admit that she framed Kevin, and—”

“No,” Barba said, with a wheeze. He swallowed. His nose and throat were thick with blood and mucus; he felt like he was suffocating. “Look at him. Look at him.”

Johnson winced. “I didn’t mean…”

“You want to hold him hostage? He’s five years old.” Barba could hear how mangled his voice sounded; he wanted to clear his throat but was afraid to try. His chest and lungs were burning, his stomach roiling. “He’s a good boy, Mr. Johnson, smart and funny and brave and kind, like you say your son was. Maybe he was. Maybe Kevin was like Noah, once. But he’s not anymore, and you know it. You know it, and you have to accept it before you hurt any more innocent people.”

“I don’t…I don’t know what to…”

“You have to let him go,” Barba said. He could feel Johnson’s pain. He could empathize, but he knew he had to push anyway. If he had to break Johnson to save Noah, there was no choice. “You have to let Kevin go.”

“I don’t know how,” Johnson admitted, barely above a whisper, the gun quivering in his hand. “He’s all I have…”

“Your son is gone, at least the way you remember him,” Barba said, swallowing again. “You can still be there for him, but you can’t save him. He killed Miss Baker, he tortured her and he killed her, and he looked the lieutenant in the eye and told her he’d do it again.”

Johnson shook his head, but he’d lost his grip on denial, and on hope. His face started to crumple, and he shook his head again, looking at Noah. He took a deep breath, and his features smoothed. He raised the phone to his ear and said, “I’m sorry.”

Barba saw Johnson’s other hand move, and his heart skidded in his chest. He turned, grabbing Noah, pulling the boy’s head against his chest as Johnson lifted the gun—quickly, without hesitation—and shot himself in the head. Noah let out a breathless little scream as the gunshot filled the world around them. It was over in a heartbeat, and Johnson crumpled to the floor in a series of dull thuds. Barba had Noah’s face against his shirt, with his hand over the side of the boy’s head, shielding him from the sight, but he could feel the tremors wracking Noah’s small body, could feel him clinging to Barba’s jacket.

Johnson was dead, and as the noise of his final shot faded from the air, Barba held onto the boy in his arms, feeling like his heart was going to tear from his chest. The world spun around him.

“I’m sorry, _mijo_ ,” he murmured, close to Noah’s ear, holding him, afraid to loosen his grip. “You’re safe, Noah. You’re safe, I’ve got you.”

“Rafi,” Noah sobbed.

“Lucy, are you okay?” Barba asked over his shoulder. He knew that the police would be coming through the door in a matter of seconds. “Lucy,” he repeated, slowly and painfully getting to his feet with Noah in his arms.

“I’m okay,” she answered, sounding shaken. “I’m okay,” she said again, when their eyes met. Then his gaze slid past her, because Benson was coming into the room. She had her gun in one hand and her phone to her ear. As soon as she saw Barba, she holstered her weapon and pocketed her phone, relief flooding her face at the sight of Noah hugged to his chest.

She paused for a moment by Lucy, touching her shoulder, asking if she was alright. Lucy assured her quickly, knowing that Benson needed to get to Noah. As the cops swarmed around Johnson’s body, Barba shifted Noah higher in his arms, turning the boy toward Benson.

Noah launched himself at her, and she caught him in a tight hug, kissing his head, murmuring assurances and words of love. She met Barba’s eyes; he wanted desperately to grab her, to hold onto her to convince himself that he was alive. He could feel himself shaking. She needed Noah, now, though—there would be time for Barba to tell her everything he needed to say, later.

Benson reached out a hand and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, yanking him forward, nearly crushing Noah between their bodies as she pulled Barba into a hug. His eyes burned as he wrapped his arms around them, Benson and Noah, holding them as though his life depended upon it.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m—”

“Shut up,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Just hold me and shut up.”

 

*       *       *

 

Barba stood in the bedroom doorway, watching Benson tuck her son into bed. He was filled with a rush of love that stole his breath. He’d never imagined being able to love anyone as much as he loved them. Thinking of the way he’d spoken to Noah—of the stricken, confused look on the boy’s face before he realized what was going on—caused Barba real and sharp pain. He wanted to hug the child to his chest and apologize a million times, promise to never hurt him, but as much as he wanted to be, he wasn’t fully a part of their family, not yet. He had to earn their love and trust, both of them.

Noah glanced at Barba, then motioned for Benson to bend down. He put up a little hand and whispered something into her ear.

Barba didn’t want to take his eyes off of them, but he forced himself to turn, determined to give them privacy to talk about everything that had happened.

“Rafa,” Benson said, stopping him. He looked back, meeting her eyes. She said, “Noah wants to talk to you,” and Barba’s gaze slid to the boy. Benson bent, kissing Noah’s forehead and tucking the covers more tightly around him, murmuring, “Goodnight, sweet boy. I’ll see you in the morning.” She straightened, turning toward Barba, and he felt a nervous flutter in his stomach. She was leaving him alone with Noah? What could he say, how could he possibly explain himself to the boy?

When Benson neared him, their gazes locked, and he swallowed. She put her palm against his chest, and he covered her hand with his—but only for a moment, and then she was gone, leaving him with Noah.

Barba walked to the bed, hiding his nervousness. Noah peered up at him, and the boy looked so small that Barba sat on the edge of the bed, on impulse, needing only to comfort him.

“You were very brave today, _mijo_ ,” he said, the endearment slipping out unbidden. “I’m proud of you. I know it was scary, but you’re safe now, you don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

“I’m not scared,” the boy answered.

“That’s good,” Barba said. He hesitated. “Noah, I’m sorry if it seemed like I was angry with you, or if I—”

“That man was mad at you,” Noah said, shifting a bit on his pillow. “You didn’t want him to know we were friends.”

“That’s exactly right,” Barba answered. “I also…didn’t get a chance to tell you thank you for the cookies—and for the drawing.” He’d changed out of his bloody shirt and into a Harvard sweatshirt that he’d left at Benson’s house the week before. Now, as he sat on the bed, with one hand braced on the bedspread, Noah’s fingers crept up to touch his sleeve. Noah’s expression was one of hesitance, and Barba turned his hand over, taking Noah’s in his. “You can ask me—or say, anything you want, Noah,” he said.

“What’s a stepdad?” Noah asked.

Barba’s heart skipped, and he considered for a few moments before answering. “It’s just a word for…a dad who you meet…when you’re not a baby,” he finally said, feeling like an idiot. He’d never had such difficulty finding the right words, in his life. He’d always been able to talk his way into—or out of—anything when he put his mind to it.

“When he marries your mom?” Noah suggested, and Barba knew that the boy was thinking of what Johnson had said.

“I guess so,” Barba said. “Technically, but you should know that—”

“If you married Mommy, you’d be like my dad?”

“Noah, listen to me, okay? No matter what happens, I will always be here for you when you need me. No matter what. I promise you. So you don’t have to worry—”

“Do you want to marry her?” Noah asked.

Barba swallowed, looking at the boy’s hopeful expression, and he felt tears burning his eyes. “Yes,” he answered. “Someday,” he added. “I want you and your mom both to know that I’ll be here, always. But I also want you to be okay with that. If you’re upset, you can tell me, if you’re not happy—”

“I’m happy,” Noah said, and his smile took away all of Barba’s fears and doubts, at least for the moment.

He squeezed the boy’s hand and, on impulse, bent and kissed his forehead. Barba’s lips were sore, but he didn’t care. “You get some sleep, buddy,” he said. “It’s been a long day. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight, Rafi,” Noah said, snuggling under the covers, his worries eased.

“Goodnight, _mijo_ ,” Barba murmured, watching him for a few moments longer before getting to his feet. He shut off the light but left the bedroom door cracked so that the room wouldn’t be too dark. And he went to find Benson.

She was in the kitchen, sipping from a glass of wine. There was a glass of scotch on the counter, with the bottle beside it. Just looking at it made his lips burn, but he knew it would soothe his nerves. He met Benson’s eyes and walked toward her.

“You bought scotch?” he asked.

She mirrored his small smile, and said, “It was supposed to be a bribe. But now…I thought you could use it. I’m sorry I didn’t wash that,” she said, nodding toward his sweatshirt. “Wearing it helps me fall asleep when you’re not here. It smells like you.”

He shook his head. “It smells like _you_ ,” he countered softly, stopping in front of her and putting his hands at her hips. He could see all the emotions shining in her eyes, and knew that she could read him as easily as he could read her. “It should never be washed again.”

“Rafael,” she said, shaking her head, her lower lip quivering, “when I heard that gunshot—”

“I’m sorry,” he said, pulling her into his arms. He took her glass and set it on the counter, saying, “Liv, Noah’s fine, and—”

“I knew you’d protect him.”

“—Lucy’s fine, and—”

“You’re fine?”

He _had_ been about to say that, but he stopped. Seeing Noah’s smile made him feel better. Holding the woman he loved in his arms made him feel better. And yet, he couldn’t get the image out of his mind: the look on Johnson’s face, the exact moment the man decided to kill himself. He’d gone to Barba’s apartment with an ill-conceived plan, at best, out of nothing more than a desperate need to believe that his son was not lost to him. For a little while, he’d had hope. Barba had spoon-fed it to him with pretty words and assurances and false promises. And then he’d ripped it away.

Barba took a shuddery breath, lowering his forehead to Benson’s shoulder. He was comforted by her scent, by her warmth. “I killed him, Liv, as much as if I’d—”

“He made his own choice, Rafa,” she said, and her hand was rubbing his back as she held him. “You did what you had to do to get yourself and Noah and Lucy out of there.”

“I almost had him. He was ready to surrender. But—I made a mistake. I didn’t think about the phone, the picture.”

“Raf—”

He lifted his head to look at her. “I’d do it again, Liv. I can’t get it out of my head, that look on his face, and it makes me sick. I wish I could’ve saved him. But he had nothing left. I pushed because I knew he would break, and I would do it again.”

“For Noah,” she whispered, because she understood.

Barba nodded. “If anything had happened to him—”

“He’s okay, Rafa. It’s not your fault.” He let out a breath, and she pressed her palm to his cheek. “It’s not your fault,” she repeated. She leaned her head forward and kissed him, carefully, on the corner of his mouth, mindful of his split lip. He turned his face, capturing her mouth with his. He didn’t care that it hurt; he needed to taste her, smell her, feel her, let her fill all of his senses.

He’d cleaned the blood from his face, but his nose felt swollen and stuffy. His face was bruised, and so was his body, but nothing was broken. _He_ wasn’t broken.

She shifted backward, against the counter, pulling him with her. She felt his wince and drew back to look at him, but he quickly claimed her mouth, again, because none of the pain mattered. Only she mattered, only the two of them together. His feet were spread and planted, and he leaned into her, his hands splayed at her waist. She snaked her fingers into his hair; she’d always loved his hair, and the way it felt between her fingers, and the knowledge brought him profound joy.

He wanted her, and knew that she could feel his growing desire—not just physically, but emotionally. Reaching behind her, blindly, he slid the glasses and bottle aside. He lifted her, swallowing her gasp of surprise, setting her on the counter. He lowered his head and trailed kisses down to her stomach, relishing the shiver that passed through her as she clutched his hair in both hands.

“Raf,” she breathed. “Wait.” He hesitated, drawing back to look at her, and she saw the uncertainty in his expression. She cupped his face in her hands. “I love you,” she told him, and saw his eyes soften.

“I love you, too,” he murmured.

“I know. I know you do. Stay, Rafa.”

“Of course, I’m—”

“No, I mean, _stay_. Don’t just leave some clothes here, don’t just sleep over sometimes, stay here, _always_. I know you’re scared.”

“I’m not worried—I have no doubts about you, Liv, about me and you.”

“No, you’re afraid of…not fitting in with us, of intruding. But that little boy in there _loves_ you. We need you as much as you need us. I know you’ve been carrying a ring around for weeks—I saw it, in your briefcase, I’m sorry—”

He stared at her, his heart thumping in his chest. “My grandmother’s ring,” he said. “It’s not here—I’m sorry, Liv, it’s still at my apartment, I didn’t bring anything—”

“I don’t care, Rafa. All I’m saying is, if it’s for me—”

“Of course. Of course, it’s yours. Marry me.”

She smiled. “Guess I didn’t need the scotch, after all.”

“Olivia—”

She cut him off with a kiss. “In the morning, Rafael,” she said. “Take me to bed so I can make your bruises feel better.”

He grinned, barely wincing at the pain in his lip. “Will you wear this sweatshirt?” he asked, watching her lips curve at the thought.


End file.
